Sometimes he had regretted not having a wife laid by himself as a sort of permanent stake, domestically speaking. If only he did not feel such revulsion toward the candor and monotonous details of actual married life. His decadent delicacy would be offended by the squalor of licensed intimacy with a woman. “Squalor” was the word he invariably used in discussing the psychology of marriage. Still, he might marry Helen Cutter. She would never be in his way. She was not in her husband’s way now. And she was singularly refreshing to his jaded fancy. He had been so corrupt that, by revulsion rather than repentance, invincible virtue in a woman attracted him. Besides, it would be a good joke on Cutter to lose his wife--such a wife--while he was philandering in New York. He had always entertained a secret contempt for the fellow--a bounder who did not know how to bound; a gambler with the nerve of a financial adventurer. New York teemed with men of his type. They had exchanged some commonplace remarks while he hit this line of reflection in the high places, having gone over it many times before. That is to say, he offered the remarks--on the weather, on the growth of Shannon, and more particularly upon the current aspects of the war. Helen’s contributions to these topics had been brief. He comprehended perfectly that she was still in suspense as to the meaning of his visit. He rose presently, took his chair, advanced with a friendly air and sat down near her, potentially within reach. And was amused to see that she still regarded him as from a great distance. “But you have not answered my question,” he said, going back to that. “When are you coming to New York to live? Thought you would have been settled there long before this time.” “I shall live here.” “Never in New York?” “No.” “But you are not planning to neglect us entirely! Cutter would not stand for that. You will be coming up occasionally, of course,” he insisted, smiling. “No; this is my home.” Gad, couldn’t she even squirm a bit? Why didn’t she blaze forth at Cutter or cover the situation with a few lies? He wondered how it would feel to live with a woman who hit the truth on the head every time, as if the truth was a nail to be driven in, even if it pierced your vitals. Shippen swept a complimentary glance around the room as if in reply to her last remark. “Well, you have certainly made it a beautiful home,” he said, feeling by the growing emergency of the question in her eyes that if he did not get off on another tack, she might force an explanation of his presence here which he was not ready to make until he had won more of her confidence. “This room is marvelous,” he went on, “sedate and feminine. It escapes the austerity of being a noble room by a miracle. What is it? Piety with a flash of color, I should say. However did you think of such an effect? And how did you accomplish it?”